


Portrait of a Dead Brother

by aameyalli



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 11:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20777768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aameyalli/pseuds/aameyalli
Summary: Carver doesn’t like fighting with his brother. It’s just so much more work not to.(A reflection on the fight in Act 1, with purple/red Hawke.)





	Portrait of a Dead Brother

**Author's Note:**

> sibling death mention (sorry beth), alcoholism mention (sorry garrett)

The door booms shut behind your brother, but not before you hear Varric outside—"You look like shit, Hawke. Who spit in your grog?" and Garrett's sharp laugh—"Who do you think?"

"You should give me a shot at Junior, I'd—"

Boom.

Just like that, Garrett is gone again, probably off to drink himself stupid, and you're alone with Gamlen and Mother’s shifty eyes and the echoes of your fight. And Dog. She ambles over and butts her head against your hand, whining hopefully.

You shove her away. You don't want to pet his dog. You want to storm around the house and break everything he owns. What has he told Varric about you? What are they saying about you right now? Are they making fun? You hate him. You hate them both.

_Feel better getting that off your chest?_

“Carver...”

That’s all Mother says. She doesn’t come towards you, just flutters her hands, then twists them together, looking off into the darkened fireplace. Not at you. She barely looks at you or Garrett anymore.

You slink back to the bedroom without a word. You need to get out of this cramped, stinking house, away from Mother’s broken-wing hands and Gamlen’s dirty looks (you remember Varric saying you looked like him, and your stomach turns, then turns again with guilt ‘cos Gamlen's not so bad, really, he's doing his best). You need somewhere to sulk in private. You need your sword, because there’s nowhere safe to sulk alone in Lowtown.

If you're being honest, you're not even sure what you and Garrett were just fighting about. It started with Garrett saying you could all take back the Amell estate, because it had been Mother's all along. He'd started reading the will out loud, a dirty grit of laughter in his voice. Then he'd turned towards you, expecting your praise, grinning to show every one of his teeth like Dog grinned when she'd killed a rat and wanted belly rubs for it. And you hated him for it. And there was something thick and sour coming up in your throat because how could he keep wanting, wanting, _wanting_ attention all the Maker-damned _time? _And you needed an excuse, any excuse, to spit out that bitter taste and tear into him.

So you snapped at him. You made what he'd done sound cheap and stupid. You wanted to hurt his feelings.

But Garrett just chuckled. _"Feel better getting that off your chest?"_ he'd asked you, joking and cruel. And it could've stopped there. Garrett would have let it go if you had. But you had to lift your chin and glower at him.

_"Not really, no."_

You had to talk back.

Garrett "letting things go" is a win for him. He likes to laugh things off and turn his back quickly. It makes him feel all tough and clever. And you're tired of it, so you never let things go these days. You keep goading until he loses his temper and throws himself back at you, relentlessly, like Dog snapping at crows on a Lowtown street, hungry and stupid, his smiles all bared teeth. This time it was easier than usual.

_"You know," _he'd said, _"you could try to slap a smile on, for just a couple days. For Mother's sake. This..."_ And he gestured sweepingly to all of you. _"...is really losing its charm."_

Maker, what an asshole. You hate him. _Hate_ him. As you stalk across the bedroom and grab your greatsword off the floor, you wish you had Garrett back here so you could shove him, hit him, shout the smile off his face, make him cringe and squirm and cry like _you've_ been made to, so many times.

(Not just by him. By the whole world, which scratches and tears at you just to be in. Ever since Bethany died. You’re half a pair of twins, clumsy, stupid, broken off, all rough edges, and everything and everyone hurts.)

You wish Garrett was here so you could tear his grinning mask off.

Make him_ look_ at you.

Look at you instead of laughing, always laughing, and turning his back again.

You lift the sword and strap it to your hip. Turn back... and pause.

Garrett's bed is empty. Empty, unmade, rumpled and cold, gathering dust. You didn't expect to see anything different. It's just that this was the first time you've seen your brother in the house in—how long? Days? A week? More than that? And you're just thinking of it now.

His bed is the same mess that it has been, not a wrinkle changed, nothing on his "table" (empty crate) except a bag of treats for Dog. Not so much as a comb or razor or book or a single keepsake from home. Of course, you've never seen Garrett touch any of those things willingly, and it's not unusual for him to take nighttime jobs for Athenril and crash into bed, drunk on exhaustion and/or whiskey, some time in early afternoon. But he hasn't been here at all, and that means you don't know where he's sleeping lately._ If_ he's sleeping.

Not that you care. He's probably just sleeping with one of his stupid friends. Or else he's decided that sleep is for mortal men, not the unkillable, untouchable Hawke, and he's just gonna keep crashing around Kirkwall at all hours until you find him in a gutter, mumbling like a lyrium addict.

Not that you care what your brother does to himself, it's just—

_This is really losing its charm._

You snatch your sketchbook off your own "table" (yes, also a crate) and leave the house.

* * *

You don't let out your breath fully until you've scaled the wall, using iron spikes and barred-up windows as footholds, and settled on a roof several stories above Gamlen's. It's a pretty good sulking place. All the views are ugly.

You sit on the edge of the roof, feet dangling, sword resting in easy reach, and start to sketch. The clutter of rooflines. A crow. A stray cat. A stray dog. A rat's furtive face. Strangers on their way to the bazaar. And from memory, Mother. Peaches. Your King Cailan, and Maker, that one aches something different. You really liked King Cailan.

And Bethany.

You're not much of an artist, but you like that you're making something. You're proud of making. Most people in this city just consume things. Eat, eat, eat but always hungry. Mouths with no stomachs. Like Darkspawn. Garrett has no crafts, as far as you know. He's just _eating_ like all the other beasts in Kirkwall. You think he eats attention. No food, no sleep, just booze and attention keeping him alive.

You haven’t tried to draw Garrett before. It would be a nice challenge, that laughing mouth, those watchful eyes, his hair and beard spiking up in every direction. But you never draw him.

_"Sure, make light," _you snapped at him. "_Why take anything seriously? You're the eldest, you lead by default."_

_"I don't see you taking the reins."_

_"Oh? Yeah? When should I do that? When I'm following you around, or when I'm caring for Mother while you tame mighty Kirkwall?"_

And then you'd said—

And then you—

You feel sick. Your twin sister looks up from the sketchbook in your lap. Her smile is serene but with that little glint of mischief, that one deep dimple by her mouth. You can’t remember where her freckles were. It feels wrong to draw in dots at random, so you just leave them out.

And then you'd said, _"We both know what happens when someone leaves dear brother's protection. I'm sure Bethany would appreciate that you're keeping good humor."_

It felt like such a good line when you said it. It was so rare for anyone to outflank Garrett in an argument. Your brother reared back like he'd been clawed across the face. And you, or at least that knotted-up hateful part of you that wanted to see him hurt... You were pleased.

You're not pleased now. You're not even sure you're still angry. It’s so easy to hate him when he laughs at you. So hard to hold onto the feeling when he's out of sight.

There’s something wrong with you. You don’t know what. You think there’s something wrong with him too.

_"You will not use her against me like that!" _Garrett barked out. _"She deserves better."_

_"Then you should have given better."_

_"I GAVE EVERYTHING!"_

You flinched at that. Mother jumped too, her pale face flashing up bright as a mirror.

Garrett didn’t notice. He was hunched over like a cornered Mabari, shoulders up, eyes burning, his voice barely more than a growl when he said it again, _"I__ gave everything, Carver."_

Making him acknowledge you, making him this angry, it was a victory for you. But you didn’t like it. You didn't like victory. You didn't like the violent look on his face. It was all so ugly. You turned your face away, looked at the floor, and thanked the Maker you couldn’t see his magic, 'cos it must have been closing around the whole room like a mouth.

And then it was over. Garrett straightened up. Whatever roared in him, he leashed in a second. He stepped forward calmly. You felt loomed over, cast in cold shadow, even though you know he’s shorter than you.

_"Poor Carver," _said Garrett. _"You love being angry with me, don't you? T__oo busy hiding in my shadow to escape from it?"_

_"I am not a joke!"_

You don’t know why the fight started, but you know how it ended. With Garrett’s voice flicking out like a knife, and you, cut to ribbons: _"A__m I laughing?" _he said.

You just stood there shivering.

_"Well," _said Garrett._ "Good talk."_

He went outside to meet Varric. The door boomed. Your brother was gone.

-

You scratch in the last of the shading on Bethany’s dark hair and look at it for a second. And then, quickly, before you can change your mind, you flip to a blank page and you start to draw your brother for the first time. You draw with heavy, clumsy, angry slashes. The messiest suggestion of broad shoulders. An angry snarl. Wide, crazy eyes.

_I gave everything!_

No he didn’t. He never even talks about Bethany.

_You _gave everything. You're ruined without her. You have no one to talk to and no one who ever looks you in the eye.

Mother used to. You remember her messing up your hair while you tried to bat her hand away. You remember her saying _"There’s jam on your nose, you’re as messy as your brother,"_ and licking her thumb and scrubbing your face with her spit, and you squirmed and pushed and yelped out _"__No! No! Ew, Mum! Gross!"_

In Kirkwall, she fusses, but it’s always the same lines. _"Oh, but isn't that dangerous…?" _Like a bird repeating something it heard once. Fidgeting her hands. Looking away. That permanent look of hurt and confusion. Sometimes she drops food on herself. You wipe it away.

_"You’re messy, Mum."_

She doesn’t answer.

You think she’s still in Lothering. In her head. She didn’t really come with you. She hasn't been with you since Bethany died. She isn’t really here. And maybe that’s why Garrett wants the Amell house back. To remind her she has two sons left and a warm solid body and decades left to live. To lure her with fancy things back into herself, like a magpie into a birdhouse. It would be that easy, in Garrett’s head.

_I gave everything._

He’s wrong. He’s stupid. If you asked him to name what he’d lost, could he even tell you? He would laugh and turn his back.

But he didn’t do that before Kirkwall. Garrett used to look at you.

The sketch is finished. You’ve drawn him monstrous. Sharp teeth. Hair and beard bristling like a wolf’s hackles.

You flip the page and start again.

Garrett used to look at you. He’s always been smug and sneaky and rough with you and—Varric’s word is “high-maintenance” but you think a better one is _burning,_ your brother has always _burned_ and that’s why he can’t stand still too long without leaving a black mark and you have to look away when his smile gets too bright and wicked—you remember when you thought he loved you, and his jokes were funny, and his burning just tickled instead of. Well. _Burned._

You remember asking,_ "How come your eyes aren’t blue?" _while he walked you home from the schoolhouse in Lothering. He was balancing on a fence, and you were down below, fiddling with a copper you’d found on the ground, trying to remember how Father did coin tricks.

Garrett flared his eyes crazily at you and said, _"__Mother made me eat so much squash and carrots and yellow peppers that my eyes turned yellow. You must never eat vegetables, Carver. Never. Your hair might turn green, and green’s just not your color."_

You shook your head. Not because you doubted the story, nothing seemed impossible in that house full of mages, but because—_"__Your eyes aren’t yellow."_

_"No? What are they, then?"_

_"Gold."_

And he said, _"__Well, I eat that too," _and swiped the coin from your hand and popped it into his mouth and you pushed him off the fence and wrestled for it back—"_Don’t slobber it! Ew! You’re worse than Mum!"_

It's a stupid memory. And you were wrong anyway. Garrett’s eyes are yellow. Sulfur yellow. Nothing in this family is gold.

Garrett was nine when he found out he was strong enough to lift you and Bethany at the same time. He went stomping around Lothering with a twin on each shoulder, crowing to the other kids: _"__Look at us, watch out, we’re an ogre, we’ll stomp you all flat!" _and some of them rolled their eyes and went back to their own games but most of them scattered and screamed and laughed, and their faces were adoring, and you thought it was for you. It was always just for Garrett but you thought it was for all of you.

_"Look at us."_

The ogre game didn’t last very long. You grew taller than him quickly. Garrett filled out, stocky and square, and Bethany stayed small, and you just grew up and up and up, too big for piggyback rides.

You remember him even younger than nine. A messy-haired boy, with yellow—gold?—_yellow_ eyes and an insolent grin, who sat on the carpet conjuring flames on his fingertips, teaching Bethany, needling you, saying _"__I bet you can do it too Carver, just think about pushing really hard and try not to shit on the floor." _You couldn't do it. You could never be a mage. Garrett pulled you in and hugged you when you cried from wasted effort.

Bethany hugged you too from behind. She said, _"It’s okay, Carver. You can share my magic." _And then she blew a raspberry in your ear.

You felt better. You were twins. You could share anything you wanted. Jokes. Dreams. Pies stolen from the neighbor's sill. Even Bethany's magic. It was that easy.

You put your stick of charcoal down. You’ve drawn Garrett young this time. No scars, no beard. Smiling. For real. His real smile is funny-looking. Small, tight-lipped, one side hitched up, eyes creased at the corners, and what if you’re the only person in _Thedas _who knows to look for that, who knows when your brother’s faking a smile and when he's not? It’s not the right kind of feeling special. It doesn’t make you happy. But it makes you… something.

_Look at us._

What’s wrong with you, that you won’t try to fix things between you and the only sibling you have left?

You haven’t come to any answers. Mother told you once about sulking. It makes your head sticky. You stick in it and you don’t get anywhere.

* * *

You think of things to say to him, but Garrett doesn’t come back that night, or the night after. You see him only days later, stepping out of the Hanged Man with Varric at one hip and Anders on the other. Your brother is chuckling at something Anders said. Something filthy, if Varric's face is anything to go by.

The dwarf sees you and waves. “Junior! Fancy meeting you here.”

You say, “Fancy meeting—? I live right bloody_ there."_

Anders says, “Are you coming to the Deep Roads?”

Varric says, “It’s BYOB.”

Garrett says, “Carver’s not coming,” and your throat closes. He tells a joke that cuts and burns. Anders laughs, and Garrett laughs, and then he turns his back.

After the expedition leaves Kirkwall, Mother cries. But she keeps saying "Oh, Bethany," so you're not sure if she even knows what she's sad about, if she knows or cares that Garrett is gone.

You sit with her until she falls into a twitching, fitful sleep, and then you climb up to the roof and take your sketchbook out. You leaf through the pages to the first drawing of Garrett. You hate it. You scribble over the angry, contorted face, and then the rest of them too, black them out, press so hard that your charcoal stub leaves wakes of torn-up paper behind it. When you’ve obliterated them all you fall flat on your back, chest heaving, eyes hot and prickling, and feel exhausted.

On the next blank page, you start writing a letter to the Gallows Templars.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on my new da blog, @hawkepockets! https://hawkepockets.tumblr.com/


End file.
